Ruptured
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: A seemingly normal illness turns into a whole lot more for the Winchester family.
1. Status Quo

**Summary: **A seemingly normal illness turns into a whole lot more for the Winchester family.

**A/N: **This one goes out to my beta and dear friend, Cati. I never would have written it without her and it wouldn't be what it is without her sound beta-ing skills. This is my first "real" multi-chapter fic in quite some time and really the first one in this fandom, so I'm not quite in my element (sustained plots? what? consistency? huh?).

**Disclaimer: **I own none of these characters but sure love playing with them (well, except John--him I could do without most days).

**Ruptured**

_**Chapter One: Status Quo**_

Sam was nervous. He had been nervous when he woke up, nervous as he sat through his classes, nervous when Dean picked him up from school. If his brother or father noticed, they didn't say anything. Not that he expected them to. After all, to them it was just a normal day. As he went to school, they were prepping for the next hunt.

_Normal_. It almost made Sam laugh.

Life was never normal for the Winchester family. At 16, that was a fact Sam was all too aware of. He was used to it really, used to the transient lifestyle, used to always being the new kid, used to learning to wear long sleeves in the summer to hide the bruises and scratches. He was used to moving into and out of drab apartments and cheap motels, living on drive-through and take-out. He was used to this monotonous life punctuated by occasional dramatic bursts of supernatural encounters. He was even used to nearly getting killed every other weekend.

He was even more used to not fitting in--not with his family, not with the rest of the world. Despite his separation, Sam still found solace in school, surrounded by everything he craved but could never be a part of. He wanted to belong so badly, but couldn't relate to those around him. While they lamented being grounded for curfew violation, all Sam could think of was his father's emotionless voice instructing him on hand-to-hand combat. And no matter how hard he tried to look normal, the other kids always seemed to sense his difference, his innate oddity--his family curse.

But the Winchesters had created their own kind of normalcy, their own personal status quo. True, it existed in danger and transience, but there was a steadiness in their approach, in their general attitude toward it. Together, the three of them formed a seamless unit, unified in the face of the many obstacles they sought.

He learned early on that his father disliked deviations. John Winchester believed in plans and preparation, and expected complete obedience from his sons. He claimed that it was the only way to keep them safe, that kinks in the process put people at risk, and he wasn't about to lose another family member.

Sam understood this, to a certain extent. When a hunt was going down, he certainly knew the value of taking orders. When someone said ducked, he had learned the hard way that he needed to hit the deck.

But not all of life was a hunt, at least not in Sam's eyes. So he struggled to accept that status quo in the quieter moments, the moments between hunts when he saw that the pursuit didn't have to dominate life.

It was all the same to his father, though-his life had been one continual hunt since Sam was a baby. He didn't let go of it, ever. He was single-minded and iron-fisted. Anything he deemed worthless was worthless.

There had been a time Sam had accepted this, trusted in this, but his frustrations intensified the more such blind acceptance was expected of him.

There were moments when Sam purposefully bucked his father's authority, just because he resented it so much. There were other moments when Sam couldn't help but buck it, when the injustices seemed too overwhelming to overlook. Then there were other times when he knew he had to be careful. Outright defiance got him very little. In truth, he tried to avoid it, because it never ended well. In order to get the things he wanted, he had mastered the art of subterfuge and manipulation. Sometimes it was all in the presentation.

When he couldn't sneak his way to happiness, he treaded carefully toward it. With this in mind, he had finagled in his way into various avenues of normalcy--trips to the library, the mall, school activities. He had nearly mastered getting out for an evening without more than a disapproving glance.

But this time was different. This time he wanted a weekend off, a whole weekend away from the hunt. He had been planning this for weeks, carefully constructing his arguments in his spare moments. He had been sure to keep himself in check, obliging his father's every whim, pouring himself wholeheartedly into research and training. He'd even asked Dean to help him spar, which his father had watched with a bemused smile.

Sam was playing his cards carefully. But no matter how much he had planned and prepared, the idea of making the actual request was unnerving. He hadn't been able to sit still all day during school, and he hadn't said two words to Dean in the car trip home. Now, back in the apartment, he hovered around his father, trying to garner his strength, but each time merely pouring himself a glass of water before disappearing back in to his room.

Sam took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. His stomach turned, and for a moment he thought he might throw up.

He eschewed the feeling and went to his father.

John was leafing through a library book on paranormal activity. Dean was sprawled on the lumpy coach watching television. Sam edged closer, standing in their field of view, but near the exit. He waited a moment, hoping they would notice his presence. If they did, they didn't show it.

Sam shifted awkwardly. "Dad, can I ask you something?" he finally managed to ask. His voice almost squeaked and he swallowed hard as he awaited a response, willing himself to stop shaking.

His father didn't look up. "Yeah."

Sam cleared his throat. "I know we're supposed to head out tomorrow."

His father kept jotting notes in his journal. "Right."

"Well, I know we're all supposed to go, but I was wondering if I could possibly skip this one."

Stopping, his father finally looked up at his son critically. "Why?"

Sam swallowed, encouraged by not receiving a flat refusal. "See, this weekend there's this, um, competition that I'd like to participate in."

John raised his eyebrows. "What kind of competition?"

"It's called Mock Trial," Sam explained tentatively. "It's a group of kids and we reenact a trial. A bunch of schools compete and then we're judged as a team and individually."

John appeared to think about the idea. "What kind of activity is that?"

Sam scrambled. "It's, uh, supposed to help us understand the legal system. I'm a lawyer, which is a really important role, and the team is counting on me."

"When have you had time for this?"

Sam could feel Dean's eyes on him, but he avoided his gaze. They both knew that their father would not like that Sam had been sneaking about for weeks attending meetings before and after school. He would think it was a waste of time. "There's just been a few practices, most of it's been stuff we've done in on our own. I usually read stuff before I go to bed." Sam's statements were mostly true, although he underplayed the time commitment he'd already put forth.

John shook his head. "Sammy, you're always doing stuff like that. I don't know why."

"I like it," Sam said defensively.

"But it's useless," John said.

Sam's hopes began to fall. "I just thought I could sit this one out," he said meagerly.

"Sammy, you can't just sit it out. We need you."

"You leave me at home all the time for hunts. You'll have Dean with you."

"But you know this one is a different one for us. We've never encountered anything like this before. Don't you see how much research I'm doing? I need all the help I can get on this one in order to get the job done without any casualties."

"I just thought--"

"About yourself, as usual," John snapped. "You never think about anyone else, just you. Always you. This world doesn't revolve around you."

"I--"

"I nothing, Sammy. I'm tired of your excuses. I'm tired of you being a dead weight around here. How many times have we been there for you? How many times have we had to pull your sorry backside from the fire? Too many. Time to give back something, son."

His father's words stung like a blow and Sam finally did not have the resolve to defend himself. With a ragged breath he tried to suppress, he kept his face stony. Without a word, he turned and walked away.

The place was too small to find some place of refuge where he could lick his wounds in peace.

His father's bedroom was off-limits--too cluttered with notes and pictures anyway. The kitchen adjoined the dining room, which opened to the living room where his father and brother were. That left the bathroom (which was hardly a welcoming escape) and the bedroom he shared with Dean.

He sat disconsolately on the bed. There was a history paper he could be writing and a math assignment he should be finishing, but he knew he wasn't going to be in school the next few days and couldn't find the motivation. He had a library book in his backpack, but he didn't want Dean to find him reading; he couldn't take another slight at his hobbies.

His stomach twinged, and he pressed a hand to it. A wave of exhaustion spread over him. It was a little early for bed, but he didn't want to face his family, and he hoped that sleep might melt away the pain of rejection and the unquenchable emptiness that upset his stomach.

He didn't bother to change his clothes. He just pushed off his tennis shoes, turned off the light, and curled up under the covers.

Laughter erupted from the living room as his father and Dean shared a joke.

Sam rolled over in his bed and faced the wall, squeezing his eyes shut tightly, praying to keep the tears inside.

**0000000000000**

"Dude, you're going to be late!"

Rolling over, Sam opened his eyes blearily.

"What are you doing still in bed?"

"…go away…," he mumbled, coiling himself up under his blankets and closing his eyes and slipping back into sleep.

He was drifting into a dream of his biology class, sitting and looking as Mr. Paterson pointed at a life-size model of the human body. _Food goes down the esophagus, and then make it way to the stomach where digestive juices are released…_

"Sam!"

He opened his eyes again and saw his brother standing over him. Sam squinted, trying to bring himself fully awake. "Yeah, yeah, I'm up."

"Doesn't quite look that way."

Grudgingly, Sam pushed himself up, and gave Dean a happy-now look.

"We're leaving in ten," Dean said, moving toward the door, apparently satisfied by Sam's progress.

A wave of dizziness swept over him as he sat up. When he found his equilibrium, his stomach churned.

Sam swallowed, forcing himself to stand. His body seemed to protest the movement, but Sam persisted.

Shuffling, he made his way slowly to the doorway, hoping that the movement would bring his body to full wakefulness. He met his brother coming out of the bathroom. He stopped, but the hallway kept moving forward, and he braced himself against the wall. Something wasn't right. He couldn't straighten himself and saliva built up in his mouth.

Sam grimaced, holding his stomach and looking at his brother. "I don't feel so well, Dean."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm--" Sam's voice cut off and he covered his mouth with his hand, doubling over as he made a dash to the bathroom.

Dean watched him and heard the unmistakable sound of throwing up. He followed after Sam, waiting just outside the door, watching as Sam curled himself around the toilet, oblivious of how dirty it was.

The vomiting continued until Sam could do nothing more than dry heave. He panted over the toilet, his eyes closed, trying to gather the strength to move from the foul stench that wafted up at him.

"That's lovely, Sam," Dean said. "Really lovely."

Sam groaned, finally falling back against the vanity. "I don't feel so good, Dean."

"I can see that, little brother," Dean said. He squatted in front Sam, feeling his forehead. "You don't feel that warm."

Sam looked miserably up at him.

"But you clearly are not doing so well," Dean said. "Let's get you to bed."

"The hunt--"

"You're not going to do much good to us if you're heaving your guts out, are you?" Dean said lightly, gently pulling his brother to his feet.

Sam allowed Dean to wrap a steady arm around him. "What about Dad?"

Guiding Sam, the two moved toward the bedroom that they shared. "I'll take care of Dad, okay?"

When they reached the bedroom, Sam eagerly sunk into the folds of his unmade bed. Opening his eyes again, a look of discomfort passed over Sam's face. "I really don't feel so well today."

"You're not going to hurl again, are you?"

Sam swallowed.

The sickly discoloration of Sam's face was an answer in itself. "I'm going to go find a bucket. I swear, if you puke on the floor, you're on your own. You hear me, little brother?"

Sam nodded, closing his eyes again.

Watching his brother nestle beneath the covers, Dean allowed himself a half-grin before he went in search of something to save them all from emergency trips to the bathroom.

By the time Dean got back, Sam was asleep. He placed the bucket he had salvaged from their pathetic collection of cleaning supplies on the bed next to Sam, and resisted an urge to sweep his baby brother's hair off his forehead. Sam looked younger in sleep, more innocent, and Dean could remember an earlier time, a time when Sam's life had not been so complicated, when Sam didn't complicate his life so much.

There was a noise behind him, and he turned to see his father dressed and shaved.

His father still looked tired, the bags under his eyes perpetually present it seemed.

"He should be ready by now. I told you I wanted to be on the road in ten minutes."

"He's sick."

"Sick? What do you mean?"

"He's got a slight fever," Dean said softly, letting his hand rest on Sam's forehead. "And I watched him empty last night's dinner into the toilet."

John growled. "Sure he's not faking? You know how upset he was that he couldn't do that Mock-whatever thing this weekend."

"It's definitely a fever and not even I could replicate puking that realistically."

John reluctantly let himself be convinced. "Never had this problem with you," he muttered. He scowled. "Fine, Dean." He left the room, Dean following after. "Stay with your brother--"

"Dad." Dean moved to protest, following his father into the living room.

"No, if he's too sick to hunt, he must be too sick to take care of himself." The sarcasm in his voice was evident.

"You're going to need backup."

"Dean." John stared at his son.

Dean held the gaze longer than usual before his shoulders slumped. "Yes, sir."

"He stays home ALL weekend. If he doesn't hunt, he doesn't do anything."

"Yes, sir."

"If he's going to act like a baby, treat him that way. It's about time Sam learned a little bit about growing up. He's never going to be worth anything to us if he doesn't get over this juvenile phase he's going through."

Gritting his teeth, Dean swallowed his objections. "Yes, sir."

"I mean it Dean," John warned. "Sam's getting out of control. He needs to learn a lesson about the way our life works. If he wants to _play_ sick, we'll let him play sick and live to regret it."

Pursing his lips, Dean nodded.

"Do you understand me, son?" he asked with impatience.

"Yes, sir."

A glimmer of satisfaction passed over his father's face before it returned to its typical flinty demeanor.

Dean watched his father go silently, noting all the supplies that had been checked and double-checked. He left no further instructions for Dean, told him to call Pastor Jim in case of emergencies, and said he'd be back Monday evening.

"You keep on an eye on your brother," he warned one last time.

With that, John was gone in a gruff flash, leaving Dean staring the back of the door. Taking deep and steady breaths, Dean tried to assure himself that he had not made a mistake in acquiescing to his father's orders. John's decision to go alone had been based on principle, not safety. He wanted to make Sam learn, to make them stronger as a unit.

Understanding his father's train of thought made him focus his frustrations and anger on the source of the conflict: Sam.

Sam's illness did seem too well timed. Despite Sam's display over the toilet, the doubt was tangible now as real consequences lurked in the future. _Dad shouldn't be alone on this one. _

Dean couldn't shake the feeling that his father never should have left. _He needs me_.

Stewing, Dean stalked back to his brother's room, making no secret of his entrance. _A lot more than Sam does._

Sam shifted in bed, blinking hazily up at his brother. "Dean?"

Dean eyed him critically, coldly. "You better not be faking it-if something happens to Dad and I'm stuck here with you, I'll kill you."

Sam looked like a kicked puppy.

The wounded look on Sam's face made Dean soften. He sighed. "You look like crap, man."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I feel like it, too."

"Get some rest," Dean ordered curtly, hoping not to show the inner turmoil he was feeling. He wanted to protect his brother, to keep him safe, but he also wanted to protect his father. And in the grander scheme of things, Dean knew his father was probably at more risk on a hunt by himself than Sam was home alone with the stomach flu.

But Dean had his orders and Sam's gratitude was marginally satisfying.


	2. Playing Sick

**A/N:** Wow, didn't expect that kind of response! Now I feel all pressured for brilliance--eek! So I hope this doesn't disappoint. Anyway, thanks to all who reviewed--it's made me WAY giddy. Of course, a teacher on spring break is just asking for giddiness anyway. Thanks and love and hugs to Cati for the beta and the incessant inspiration (I know, I know--I owe you a fic and those two weird post-Shadow ramblings don't count...). But, now on to Sam and Dean and that persistent stomach flu (but is it...? wow, I am bad at suspense). Apologies for turning any reader's stomach. It was not my intention to have my writing associated with vomit, but I guess as long as it's memorable, right? Oh, and remember, I know nothing about real life medical conditions...I teach languages arts, so I might be able to use a comma correctly but even that's shaky.

_**Chapter Two: Playing Sick**_

The day was uneventful. Dean camped out in the living room, watching bad daytime talk shows, trying not to listen when his baby brother threw up every hour. He would occasionally go check on Sam, help him back from the bathroom to the bed, and try to force feed him some water and saltines.

In the afternoon he went out to run some errands, swinging by a local bar where he knew some guys he knew hung out between classes at the local community college. He played a round of pool, joked around, and was enjoying his afternoon when they had to get to class and Dean reluctantly returned home.

The apartment smelled stuffy when he got inside. The air conditioning wasn't working and there clearly weren't enough windows open. "Hey, Sammy, I'm home!"

He dumped his keys on the makeshift coffee table then leaned into the bedroom. "Sammy?"

The room was empty. He narrowed his eyes in concern.

"Sam?" he asked again, moving carefully through the house, trying to keep his voice even.

He found his brother in the bathroom, curled up on the floor. He knelt beside him, smoothing his hair away to see his face. "Sammy?"

Sam whimpered, his face taught with pain.

"Sam, wake up," Dean commanded, panic pricking his subconscious.

Stirring, Sam blinked, taking gasping breaths. "Dean?"

"Yeah, Sammy. What are you doing there?"

Surveying his surroundings, Sam seemed uncertain. Overcompensating for his disorientation, he jolted upright. The room spun and his face paled.

Dean leaned back, not wanting to be in the path of any projectiles that escaped from Sam's mouth. But the nausea seemed to pass and Sam slumped back, the lines of pain etched once again onto his face. "You okay there, bro?"

Sam didn't move. The room seemed less unsettling with his eyes closed. "Stomach."

"Yeah, we established that," Dean replied apprasingly. "You just nauseous?"

"Just hurts," Sam breathed, hoping that his brother would stop asking him questions.

"Hurts how, Sammy?"

Sam opened his eyes to slits. "I've been heaving my guts out for nearly seven hours. How do you think it hurts?"

The answer seemed reasonable. But Sam was downplaying the pain, Dean was sure of it. His protests were not convincing when the pain was plastered so visibly across his face.

However, the Winchesters had a don't-ask-don't-tell policy when it came to most things in life. And it was good that Sam wasn't complaining; no one needed a whiny little brother when the going got tough. He trusted Sam would tell him if something were truly out of whack.

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean said. "Let's just get you back to bed."

**0000000000000**

Sam spent the rest of the evening in and out of the bathroom, falling into a desperate sleep between bouts. But the pain never let him drift too far, always anchoring him somewhat to consciousness, draining his already depleted energy reserves.

By the time Dean finally fell into the bed across from him, Sam had no idea what time it was, his life a painful cycle of nausea and pain. Dean said goodnight, and Sam didn't know what he replied, but found himself slipping away into sleep.

He woke up suddenly, his eyes probing the darkness frantically. _No, no, no…_

For a moment, he thought he might scream but no sound came out. He looked over to Dean, seeing his brother sleeping on the rumpled bed. He didn't have to ask Dean to know his sarcastic reply. _Take it like a man_.

The mantra in his head lulled him back into a pain-filled sleep.

**0000000000000**

Pain ripped him from sleep again, this time with a gasp. It was blinding and he couldn't breathe.

His pride crumbled and he turned his eyes to his brother, attempting to speak.

Sam's voice was taut, barely a hissed whisper. "Dean, I think--I think something's wrong."

Dean didn't open his eyes. "Wrong how?"

"…hurts…"

Moaning, Dean rolled on his side, flicking on the lamp.

"…Dean…"

Dean's eyes adjusted in time to see Sam heave mightily into the bucket. Dean wrinkled his nose as he watched.

Sam's retching continued. After a minute, he was spent, falling back against the pillows panting. His face glistened with sweat and his eyes were shut.

Dean moved carefully to Sam's bed, sliding a hand across Sam's brow. "You still feel okay," he said, noting the moisture his hand wiped away. "You just need to relax."

Sam shook his head, his forehead creased. "…hurts, Dean. It hurts."

Dean studied his brother a moment, chewing his lip. It wasn't like Sam to be needy. He didn't usually like to admit pain--to admit pain was to admit that he needed help, and Sam strove for complete independence these days.

But he had also remembered a younger Sam, a whiny Sam who exaggerated illness to get the attention he wanted. _If he wants to play sick..._

Sam _was_ sick, but it was the stomach flu-never a pleasant experience, but certainly nothing serious. Sam would never grow up if he didn't learn to suck it up, be stoic. He had never seen his father miss a hunt for a little stomachache, and he could remember more than once when he played down his own symptoms for the sake of the hunt. _He needs to learn a lesson._

Sam didn't know how to take one for the team anymore, and it was a lesson Dean figured he ought to show his brother again.

He found Sam watching him, his wide eyes looking hopeful. Dean had to be strong here. _What would Dad do? _

"You're going to whine about a stomachache, little brother? Come on, after all the crap we've dealt with, I think you can have a stiff upper lip about this one."

There was a flicker in Sam's eyes, a hesitation, a trembling. It looked as thought Sam might speak, might cry--might do something very un-Winchester-like. But it passed and he stilled, offering his brother an empty smile. "Yeah, guess so."

"Good." Dean's voice carried false bravado. "Why don't you go rinse that out, take a drink, and get some sleep."

Dean went back to his own bed, watching carefully as Sam gathered his energy to move. He sat up slowly, pausing before getting to his feet shakily. As his brother moved haltingly toward the bathroom, Dean almost went to help him, almost cursed when Sam had to lean against the door for support. _Maybe he's sicker than I think_.

But no one had stayed up with him when he had the flu--Sam should be grateful that Dean was here at all. Especially when their father needed him far more than his brother did.

Thinking of his father made him forget, helped him overcome that look of betrayal that had passed over his brother's face. Sam would learn, in time. Sam would grow up and be better for all of this.

Dean adjusted his pillow as he listened to Sam running the water in the bathroom. He watched as Sam moved lethargically back to his bed. He collapsed to the mattress, letting the bucket drop to the floor beside him. Sam's eyes were closed, but Dean could see deep creases across Sam's forehead. For a moment, Dean thought he should say something, make sure Sam was really okay.

"Turn out the light, Dean." Sam's voice interrupted his thoughts. He spoke low and monotone. "Can't sleep with the light on."

Sam's voice quelled his concerns. Dean turned off the light, and let his questions drift away into sleep.


	3. Mind and Matter

**A/N: **Thanks again for the all the reviews! They are truly making this process exceptionally fun. Unfortunately it is Friday so I am mourning the rapidly approaching end of my spring break (if I keep denying will Monday come less quickly?). Anyway, onto chapter three! Again much credit needs to go to Cati who manages to keep my writing from exploring every random tangent I might otherwise let it pursue. I'm a better writer because of her and probably a better person too :)

_**Chapter Three: Mind and Matter**_

Sam awoke slowly, his mind groggily become aware. He kept his eyes closed, trying to feel out the status of his body. It was bright in the room--it must be morning--but he couldn't bring himself to open his eyes. He could still taste the foulness of vomit in his mouth, which was dry and coated with grime. He felt tired; his limbs were too heavy to move.

He opened his eyes just barely, just enough to take in the fullness of the morning light. He forced a swallow, testing his stomach. The overwhelming nausea seemed to be gone.

Encouraged, he opened his eyes more fully, blinking as they adjusted to the influx of sun. He was about to sit up when the nausea hit him again and he barely had time to grab the bucket before he retched.

He had nothing left to throw up but bile, so after a few painful dry heaves, he leaned back against the headboard.

Then the pain lanced through him, re-igniting with vigor. He gasped, his hand moving to his stomach in shock.

The pain was searing, and it took moment for the whiteness to settle from Sam's vision. With a couple of deep breaths, Sam managed to compose himself. He felt himself balancing precariously on the edge of consciousness, the pain threatening to consume him if he so much as twitched.

He was still lying there, in a stupor, when Dean meandered in.

His brother grinned his trademark grin. "Look who's awake."

Sam grimaced.

"How you feeling?"

With a shaky shallow, Sam spoke. "Okay."

"We're doing better here," Dean quipped. "You slept for nearly three hours that last time without as much as a hiccup. It's all mind over matter, bro, and you're on the mend."

Sam managed a thin smile.

Dean bought it, and returned it with a broad, toothy smile of his own before he disappeared back into the living room.

**0000000000000**

Sam had tried to do his homework for part of the morning. But as he tried to complete the trig problems, thoughts of pi unsettled him, twisted his stomach angrily. When he tried to read _Catcher in the Rye _for American Literature, he found Holden Caulfield's whiny voice too familiar, too appealing, and that nauseated him too.

He fell asleep to that book, wondering if there was some catcher out in the rye fields, ready to catch him as he approached the end. He felt himself running, desperately, furiously, ignoring the pain as it erupted through his limbs and body. When he neared the edge of the field, that's when he saw the catcher, grinning a broad, cocky smile…_Dean?_

"Sammy, you awake?"

Sam's eyes snapped open.

"You okay there?"

Sam's voice was strained, but he was better at lying than his brother gave him credit for. "I'm okay," he said. "Just my stomach."

"Well you just spent the last few days emptying everything out of it. You're bound to be a little off for awhile there, kiddo."

Sam almost smiled. _Mind over matter_.

He didn't grimace until Dean had turned around. He silently willed Dean to probe him further, to make him divulge the depth of his pain, but his brother took him at his word, and disappeared down the hallway.

Sam let out a shaky breath, the trembling renewing. Exhausted by the effort of camouflaging the pain, Sam sank into a troubled sleep.

**0000000000000**

Sleep had come readily to Sam, leaving Dean an evening to himself. He spent it in front of the TV, the one his father had purchased with the antenna that picked up a remarkable number of stations when aligned correctly.

He thought about calling someone--he had a few numbers for girls he had met scribbled on napkins in his bedside table. But Sam had still looked pale, still unsettled, and Dean didn't want to leave his brother while he was still recovering. Besides, his father would kill him, and Dean was skeptical of his brother's self-assessment of his condition.

He figured his father was probably at his destination by now, making preparations. Dean started to go through the mental checklist and wished suddenly that he could be there with his father to help ensure that everything was in place. He hated the thought that his father was going to be on his own this weekend.

He almost considered checking on Sam again, making sure all was well, but the infomercial changed to a hair removal cream that focused in on sleek and tan long legs of women in scanty bikinis. Enthralled, he watched, only half hearing the glowing testimonies, before he fell into a soundless sleep.

**0000000000000**

Dean was jarred to consciousness by the growing sound from an early morning news report. Stretching, he checked the time. _7:30…I should be in bed_.

The couch had left kinks in his back and he stood to work them out. Finding himself awake, he decided to check on Sam.

His kid brother was curled up, sleeping soundly. The bucket by his side was empty.

Satisfied, Dean knew it was time to start pushing his brother to full recovery. He went to the kitchen in search of nourishment for him. Poking around the empty cupboards, Dean found an assortment of protein bars and canned fruit--not exactly the idea food for a recovering stomach.

Dean rummaged for some bread--toast being a stomach flu standby--and found none. Sighing, he decided he would need to make a run to the store. Seeing as Sam hadn't puked in hours, he figured his brother could survive without him. Besides, the house seemed interminably small and he was desperate to get away from the stench of sweat and sickness.

When he got back, he found Sam sitting up, reading his book. "You must be delusional now," Dean joked wryly. "Reading? On a weekend?"

Over the top of his book, Sam cast his brother a perturbed frown. "I'm feeling better, thanks."

"Yeah, back to your typical freaky self, I can see," Dean said. "You ready to try to eat something?"

"Do I have to?"

"Yep."

"Then why'd you ask?"

Dean gave a lopsided grin. Sam was back to ornery--probably the best sign of all that he was on the mend. "How's some toast?"

"Mmm…sounds delicious."

Dean ignored the sarcasm and went to the kitchen, Dean emptied out his grocery bag, taking out the bread he bought for Sam. The toaster was on the counter and he plugged it in, plopping two pieces of toast in the slots. Dean managed to salvage the toast before the toaster charred the bread, tossed them on a plate, poured a glass of water and returned to Sam.

Sam accepted the plate of toast with as much excitement as could be expected. The smell of the food didn't turn his stomach, but he still didn't find it readily appealing. However, very aware of his brother's eyes on him, he lifted up a piece and ate a small corner.

When it went down without a gag reflex, Sam was encouraged, and nibbled some more. Dean watched approvingly.

"We're definitely making progress here."

Sam just rolled his eyes and took another, more sizeable bite. "Jack called."

"Yeah?"

"He says they're having a party tonight, at his place."

Dean tried not to look interested. "Yeah, well, looks like I've already got my date for the evening."

Sam glared. "I'll be fine," he said, annoyed. "You can go."

"Dad would kill me."

"I wouldn't tell."

Dean seemed to consider it. "We'll see how you're doing tonight, okay?"

"Whatever."

There was a lull and Dean studying the window, which was streaky and laden with dust. "Man, we could have been there with him," Dean said with a sigh.

"Dad?"

"This was a big gig, Sammy," Dean said. "If I had known you'd be better by now, we could have swung it. You could've slept in the car."

Sam stopped eating his toast, his appetite waning. "Sorry for putting such a damper on your plans."

Dean glared at him. "It's not about my plans," he said sternly. "It's about what's best for the family. Dad shouldn't be on this hunt alone. He needed backup and you're laying around with a little bug. I should have dragged you out of bed that morning and made you come."

"And you would have loved that when Dad had to pull over every five minutes while I puked my guts out."

"Maybe then you wouldn't make such a show out of it," Dean muttered.

Sam's eyes flashed with hurt and he set his jaw. "Yeah, because I so enjoy having you hover over me like a mother hen."

"Don't be a baby, Sammy," Dean said, standing. "All you ever do is think about yourself and whine. Do you think I really want to be cooped up here with you all weekend?"

"Then leave," Sam said evenly, his words separated and punctuated. "I certainly don't need you here to hold my hand."

"Right, Sammy," Dean scoffed. "Like you could do this on your own."

"Not like I've ever gotten a chance to try."

"Whatever, man. Just eat the toast and shut up. Do your little studying thing. I'll be in the living room hoping that Dad's okay."

With that, Dean left the room.

Sam sat a moment longer, looking at his hands as they held the plate on his lap. He felt the familiar rise of bile in the back of his throat, brought on as much this time by his brother's hurtful words as by whatever bug he was suffering from. Disgusted, he put the plate back on the table, and laid down to sleep.

**0000000000000**

Dean sat on the couch and stared at a blank TV screen.

He shouldn't have lost his temper with Sam. Sam couldn't help it if he was sick. And he didn't want to have to worry about Sam under the weather in the line of duty. That was a weakness they couldn't afford.

But he hated to think about his father alone out there. How could he protect both of them when they both had such different needs?

Dean didn't know, and sulkily flipped on the TV. _Nothing else I can do, anyway_, he thought, and he maintained the status quo.

**0000000000000**

A steady pulse of pain filled his sleep, cajoling him to consciousness. He gasped as his eyes flew open, surprised by the renewed onslaught of pain. It was worse than before.

He clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. _It'll pass, it'll pass. Mind over matter, mind over matter._

He heard a noise from the doorway and barely had time to wipe away the tear trickling from his eye as Dean came in.

"How you doing there?"

Sam tried to keep his face blank, tried to contain his shivering. "Fine."

"You sure?"

Sam closed his eyes. "Just tired."

"Yeah, you look it," Dean said, noting the lack of color in his brother's face. "You going to eat some more?"

"Not really hungry."

"You've got to eat. You haven't thrown up in nearly a day, and you kept the toast down this morning. I think you can manage it."

"I just want to sleep, Dean," he said, his voice almost a plea, desperate for Dean to leave him alone. He could only maintain the image of being strong so long. "I'm exhausted."

"You're not going to get any strength back until you eat something, Sammy," Dean explained tersely. "This isn't all about how your stomach may or may not feel. You can't let yourself get run down like this."

Sam took a shallow breath, hoping to steady his voice. He opened his eyes. "Okay, I'll eat some toast."

As Dean left, Sam collapsed to the bed, writhing in agony. He took shuddering breaths, hitting his fists to the side of the bed. _Please let it stop…_

By the time Dean returned, Sam had stilled his body, suppressing the pain by sheer willpower.

Dean handed Sam the plate of toast as Sam struggled to sit upright. Dean watched his younger brother quizzically. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. He lifted the toast and took a bite as though to prove his point.

Dean watched him for a few more pathetic bites before retiring to the living room. "I want to see that plate clean, Sammy!"

With Dean gone, his guise fell again. He fought the urge to regurgitate the measly pieces of toast he had just consumed. Instead he blanched, hastily crumbling the remaining bread. He sprinkled some behind his bed, not caring if it would attract more roaches, and placed the plate on the bedside table.

His artifice exhausted him, and he curled up on his side, his hand over his stomach.

Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the pain. _What's wrong with me?_

The pain didn't abate, and he thought about calling out to Dean. Dean would listen to him, Dean would take care of him-

But he was tired of being the baby. They were going to keep treating him like he was three until he started sucking it in. _Take it like a man_.

He trembled as he tried to inhale. He expected his father's disappointment; it was Dean's he couldn't stand.

Dean would never let a little stomachache keep him down. Dean would never cry out for help for a 48 hour bug. _Or 72…who's counting?_

He wiped away an errant tear, gritting his teeth. _Just got to breathe, just breathe. Think about what Dean would do_.

Dean would grin and bear it. Sam forced his breathing to even, stilling himself, trying to hide from the pain that radiated throughout his stomach. _Just grin and bear it_.

**0000000000000**

He came back to check on Sam, to find his brother sound asleep. _So much for some rousing conversation to keep me from going stir crazy._

Collecting the plate, he found the toast torn to crumbs, though it did appear that Sam had managed to eat most of it.

Dean sighed and resigned himself to the living room couch. He tried flipping channels, but the reception was poor tonight, and he didn't feel like watching a rerun of _7th Heaven_.

He turned off the TV, letting the remote flop to the couch. He still had a full day until his father returned home. He had been given explicit orders to stay, but if he had to sit here any longer, he was sure he was going to lose it.

He remembered Jack's party. _You can go_. Sam's blessing may not be enough to appease his father, but Sam wasn't a tattle-tale, and he trusted that Sam would tell him if he couldn't handle a night home alone.

With his father on the hunt and Sam bedridden, this definitely seemed like an ideal opportunity to revitalize the remnants of his social life. Their father was single-minded in his hunts-he wouldn't call to check up or even for backup since he was so determined to do it on his own.

And Sam--Sam was sound asleep. It had been nearly a day since his brother had stopped throwing up. Dean figured the worst of the bug was behind him, and all he needed was rest. He was sure his baby brother would sleep through the entire night.

He glanced at his watch. If he hurried, he could still make the party. Dad was gone, Sam was on the mend, and he was tired of sitting around the apartment.

The decision made, he left the phone by the bed along with a glass of water and a small pile of toast. He thought about rousing his brother to tell him he was leaving, but Sam needed his rest. Dean sneaked quietly out the front door.


	4. Escape

**A/N: **So I have had one of the best weeks of my life. I never appreciated spring break quite so much until I was the teacher--it's a real eye opening experience. However, tomorrow I go back, but, luckily for you all,it won't affect the story very much--it's mostly done so updates should still be fairly regular. How can I ever show my appreciation to all of you who are reading? I can't think of anything except to say you're all fantastic! And I'm so overwhelmed by the response. This chapter is short, and almost a gratuitous transition, but I promise to post the next chapter quickly. Thanks, as always, to Cati, who I think I love more than I love Sam, which is saying something.

_**Chapter Four: Escape**_

Jack Travis lived in an old farmhouse on the outskirts of town, far enough from neighbors that parties could get loud and last all night. His parties were infamously loud and wild, and people from three counties would come to check one out.

Dean parked his car on the grass a good ways from the house. Clearly the party had already started. Some partygoers were outside, leaning on the hoods of cars, smoking and tipping their beer bottles back.

The front door was open, and he could hear the music from the lawn. Inside, the place was packed, nearly wall to wall. The lights were half-dimmed and the house reeked of smoke.

"Winchester!" Jack called, moving his way through the throng of people. "You made it!"

Dean accepted a beer that Jack offered. "One of your parties? Wouldn't miss it?"

"Don't you have to babysit or something? Thought your dad made you stick by your kid brother like glue."

"He's 16, dude. I think he'll be okay for the night."

"Whatever, man," Jack said, leading him toward the living room. "I've got my eye on this cute little brunette. Redecker's a little too close to her, so I've got to go reclaim my territory. Check you later, Winchester."

Dean nodded a goodbye and watched as Jack disappeared into the crowd. He took a sip of his beer and meandered through the mob of people, scanning the crowd for a familiar or amenable face.

He found her by the window, nursing her beer, bobbing her head slightly to the music's rhythm.

Her name was Tessa, but he didn't know that until later, and she had such a beautiful smile. Her teeth were perfectly straight and brilliantly white. Her lips were a glossy pink, full and voluptuous as they widened around her teeth. In the low lights of the house, her blonde hair seemed to glisten, the light dancing up and down her highlights as she moved with the music that pulsated off the walls. As she sidled up to him, her smile became mischievous, and Dean could see she had crystal blue eyes that were round with long dark lashes, laden with mascara.

She didn't say anything to him at first, just let her body graze against him, so close that he could feel her heat. He let his hands find their way to her hips. She didn't shy away, and Dean could see the freckles on her nose.

Even Sammy would understand this. Even with all of his focus on academics, all his resistance to a no-strings lifestyle, he would understand this.

**0000000000000**

He couldn't open his eyes, he could barely breathe, and pain eclipsed his reality.

He lingered there, caught in a tormented limbo, praying for some kind of escape.

_Time to grow up, Sammy. Take it like a man._

Sam tried, he attempt to steady himself, but the pain commandeered him, left him weak and spent. _I can't_.

Despite his controlling need to live up to his brother's expectations, the pain won out, and he surrendered to it.

"…Dean…?" He heard his own voice lilting feebly through a haze.

Where was his brother? It wasn't like Dean not to come when he needed him. It wasn't like Dean to not be here, to not help him, to not make him better.

_I swear, if you're faking._ Sam could see the look on Dean's face--composed with a definitive layer of anger underneath. _No, Dean, not faking, I promise_.

Everything burned. There was fire around him, near him, in him. It started in his stomach, burning intensely throughout his abdomen, then spreading steadily throughout his entire body. He tried to scream, to call out for help, but he couldn't make his throat work.

His chest felt tight and each breath was an effort. His pretenses of stoicism fell away. _Dean, please, help me_.

He opened his eyes, searching for his brother, but everything blurred together--the off-white walls, the blue bedspread, the small rickety fake wood desk, his brother's unmade and empty bed covered with pale green sheets--it was an ever shifting kaleidoscope. The colors made his stomach turn, and he closed his eyes again.

Was he asleep? Was this a nightmare? Sam shook his head, trying to find his voice, trying to wake himself up.

As pained seemed to vibrate along every synapse, he realized acutely that there was no way this was a dream. He felt suddenly detached, the pain encompassing his body, making it a separate entity. He still felt it, but distantly now, and he let himself drift away from it. _Sleep_. It was a dark sleep that beckoned him, but he could not resist. _Sleep now_.


	5. Aftermath

**A/N: **Okay, so I wasn't going to post until tomorrow but all the complaints...err... encouragment for more finally got to me and I'm caving. Things are finally being shown for what they are in this chapter (for those who haven't guessed it as of yet). Can't think of much else I wanted to say. Only that this is so for my beta. Even if she is ditching me for a long ski retreat for FIVE DAYS. I will be in utter withdrawal without her. But, on the other hand, last time she went away I wrote most of this story, so we'll see what happens :) (oh, and Cati, Sam's out of it for most of the chapter...no eyes to focus on...you may have to visualize the lips instead...) Oh, and Nerissa, you didn't leave an e-mail address, but if you ever want to hear about the real world of teaching, I will happily go off on teacher-rants for you (just ask my beta...she's heard many). I teach high school language arts. Feel free to drop me a line if you're curious about more.

_**Chapter Five: Aftermath**_

Dean woke up with a start, with the sudden conviction that he wasn't where he was supposed to be. He jolted in bed, taking in his surroundings.

The room was foreign and devoid of personality. Then he remembered. _The party_.

As if on cue, a headache began to pound behind his eyes.

Then he remembered the girl in the dim lighting and her smile.

Sure enough, Tessa was asleep next to him, her blonde hair less vibrant in the early rays of the morning sun. Her makeup had smeared and faded, and she looked far less alluring than she had the night before.

He picked up his watch off the bedside table. _Almost 8_. He had to get home.

Soundlessly, he got out of bed and retrieved his clothes from the end of the bed. He thought about waking Tessa, but he didn't see the point. Instead, he left a note and stumbled from the bedroom.

Digging his keys out of his pocket, he stepped outside and squinted into the morning light. The yard was still half-full with cars which glimmered with the early morning dew.

The car ride home seemed longer than he remembered, and he felt a strange need for haste. He had not intended to stay that night. He knew Sam could take care of himself, but Sam was his responsibility. _You keep an eye on your brother_.

Burying the twinge of guilt, he pressed down a little more on the accelerator and hurried home.

**0000000000000**

The apartment was just as he had left it. It was eerily dim as the blinds blocked out the light. Sam didn't usually sleep late, and he was somewhat surprised not to see his brother up and about. He had been hoping after a good night's rest, Sam would be readily recovered.

Dean checked the kitchen and found it untouched. He moved toward the bedroom, noting that the door was still closed.

Gently, he opened it, peeking in. Sam was sprawled on his bed, twisted in the blankets.

Dean moved closer, turning on the lamp to illuminate the room with dim light. Sam was sleeping, but it looked far from restful. His brow furrowed and his head kept turning from side to side. The water and toast sat untouched on the bed stand.

"Sammy?" Dean sat on the edge of the bed. "Hey, Sam. Have you been sleeping all this time?"

There was no answer.

Dean reached a hand to his brother's sweat-drenched head. He drew it back, shocked by the heat radiating form his brother's face. "Geez, Sammy."

Sam whimpered at the touch, and he scrunched his eyes shut even tighter, a small tear dribbling from the corner.

"Sammy?" he asked, gently running his hand over Sam's face again. Sam had been getting better. What had happened?

Dean tapped his brother's face, trying to get a response. "Sammy?"

But Sam still didn't move.

"Sam, wake up," Dean ordered, putting a firm hand on Sam's shoulder. The panic began to rise within him. He had dealt with Sam sick, he had dealt with Sam injured, but his brother's current condition had him baffled. It was nothing more than the stomach flu--why wouldn't Sam wake up?

Dean shook him once more. "Sam," he said, approximating his father's voice as best he could. "Wake up."

Sam mumbled something, his head rolling, but his eyes did not open.

Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

Dean did a split second analysis of the situation. Sam was sick. Although Dean had medical training, it was rudimentary and limited mostly to cuts, bruises, and sprains. This was out of his league.

His father hated taking them to doctors because the paperwork was messy and it left them vulnerable to the checks and balances of real world authorities, which would never understand hunting and the necessary risks involved. Hospitals were a last resort, but Sam's condition was too questionable to leave unattended.

"Come on, Sammy. You need to get up now." Dean flung back the sheets, revealing the t-shirt that was plastered to Sam's chest. He grimaced as he pulled Sam upright, slinging his arm over his shoulder. "Come on, Sam."

Sam's head lolled against his brother's shoulder. A groan was his only protest.

Dean maneuvered his brother's body to the end of the bed, wrapping his arm around his brother's waist. "Up we go," he muttered, trying to pull Sam to his feet.

Dean had underestimated the weight of his brother's lean frame. He tried to take a step forward, but Sam's long legs became tangled, not supporting the younger's weight. Dean felt his balance tip and he stumbled backward to the bed to keep them both from crashing to the ground. "Work with me here, Sammy."

Frustrated, Dean reconsidered his plan of attack. Sam was not walking out of here of his own volition.

He spared a look at Sam, who showed no signs of awareness. His face glistened in the morning light, a sheen of sweat shimmering across it. He had to get Sam out of here, and he had to do it fast.

With his motivation revitalized, he sighed. "Sorry, Sammy," he muttered, pulling Sam upright again. Carefully, he positioned himself under his brother, hesitantly rising with Sam in a fireman's carry.

He grunted under the weight ane took a few test steps, he felt satisfied that Sam was secure. With even paces, he made his way to the car. He deposited Sam in the backseat, found his hand shaking as he fumbled to get his keys in the ignition. He was trembling. _What am I going to do?_

Still shaking, Dean gunned the engine and pulled out of the parking lot with a screech of tires.

Dean did not care much for the rules of the road on the best of days. He always figured they applied to normal people--people who could afford to believe that life existed with in neat little boundaries, people whose biggest rebellion was to drive five over the speed limit.

Usually Dean was careful--the last thing he wanted was flashing lights in his rearview mirror. No matter how he judged himself in relation to the laws that regulated most people, the police wouldn't know that difference.

But _usually_ and _best of days_ were not phrases that characterized this car trip.

Dean glanced in his mirror and saw Sam still sprawled on the back seat, bouncing as the car jolted over bumps in the pavement. _Come on, Sammy. What's going on with you?_

Dean was nearly surprised when he arrived at the hospital and came to a squealing stop in front of the doors, cursing as he remember Sam unrestrained in the back. Slamming it into park, he scrambled out, relieved to find his brother still situated on the seat.

Trying to maneuver Sam out of the car was more difficult than he had anticipated, as Sam flopped bonelessly. He nearly dropped his brother when someone finally took notice.

"Hey, you okay there?"

Dean glanced up, seeing a paramedic packing up his rig. "My brother." Dean couldn't think of anything else to say. He hoisted Sam up, his arms locked around Sam's chest.

It was enough for the paramedic, who was jogging toward him, moving to keep Sam from hitting the pavement as Dean pulled him from the car. "What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know," Dean admitted, his throat tight.

"Hey, Callie," the EMT yelled to his partner. "Grab the gurney."

Within seconds, Dean heard the clatter of metal wheels on pavement and the two EMTs were guiding Sam to the padded surface.

Dean stumbled to move with the gurney, his eyes not leaving Sam's face. _Wake up, Sammy, come on._

A flurry of activity erupted when they entered through the doors. He was pushed aside as doctors and nurses swarmed around Sam. Numbly, he tailed along as Sam was rushed to an exam room.

"Sir, what's his name?"

Dean looked up at a doctor, who was waiting with urgency. "Sam. His name's Sam."

"What happened?" The gurney was stopped and Sam was transferred to another one.

"He's been sick," Dean tried to explain, watching as they took scissors to Sam's t-shirt.

"Sick how?" a doctor asked.

A nurse slipped an oxygen mask over Sam's face. The other doctor was setting up an IV.

"Stomach flu," Dean said. "He was throwing up."

The first doctor was listening to Sam's exposed chest. "For how long?"

"A day or so."

The other doctor was drawing blood. "Anything else?"

"His stomach hurt," Dean offered. "He couldn't hold any food down."

A nurse pulled a thermometer from Sam's ear. "His fever's 103.8."

"Was he running the fever?" the first doctor asked, checking Sam's pupils.

"Barely. Until today." He kept his eyes trained on his kid brother, who laid completely still admist the action around him.

"He's dehydrated," the other doctor was saying.

"Micah, can you take Mr. Winchester to the waiting room?"

The nurse was petite and small boned, but Dean was unable to stop her from pulling him away.

"Come on, let the doctors do their work," she said, her voice soothing and low. She led him to a waiting room, plastic chairs lined up on linoleum.

"How do you know Sam?" she asked.

Dean looked at her for a moment, then cocked his head. "He's my brother."

"Are your parents around?"

Dean just shook his head, unable to think, unable to really process her words.

She gave a small smile. "We'll find you when we're done assessing him."

He sat down uncertainly and didn't see her go. He blinked once. Twice. There was a passage of time, but Dean did not move.

All he could think of was Sam and how his body had rolled onto that gurney, how hot his skin had been to the touch, and how lifeless he had looked as the doctors and nurses probed him.

He didn't recognize the doctor who talked to him next, didn't even understand what he was saying, until there was a mention of surgery.

"What?" he asked, willing his head to clear.

The doctor seemed perturbed. "Sam's appendix has ruptured. When did he first fall ill?"

"A few days ago," Dean said, his mind scrambling. "Thursday."

"Thursday?" The surprise was evident in the doctor's voice. "It's Monday. This kid must have been in agony."

Dean remembered the tears in Sam's eyes, the creasing of his brow in fevered sleep.

"Why didn't you bring him in sooner?"

Dean racked his brain for a response, but his hesitation was enough.

The doctor looked disgusted. "Where are your parents?"

Dean reddened. "My dad's at work."

"Mom?"

Dean shook his head. "Just Dad."

"Well, call him. Sam needs emergency surgery."

"Can I see him?"

"Not right now." The doctor's reply was clipped as he moved quickly down the hall.

Dean tried to follow. "But--"

The doctor stopped abruptly, turning around in hurried exasperation. "Look, kid, your brother is very sick. His appendix should have been dealt with days ago. Infection has probably set in. If we don't act, your brother could die."

The doctor's words were so forceful, so final, that Dean can do nothing but stare as the doctor disappeared behind the door and left him gaping.


	6. Lapse

**A/N: **So we all know it's Sam's appendix now, and he's in surgery, but there's still a few chapters left, and I have an active imagine when it comes to h/c fics. You can blame my beta. She brings out that side of me in ways that are inexplicable. Anyway, again, thanks to all the readers and reviewers--this process doesn't really exist without you, so I don't know how to show my gratitude except to POST. Also again, credit to my beta, who is away skiing for a long weekend, but I still post in honor of her (after all, she's the one who squee-d so hard when I mentioned the idea of an appy fic that I HAD to write it for her...we have lovingly referred to this fic as our happy appy piece..). Oh, and Nerissa, e-mail address never come through on this site! You can find my e-mail address on my profile page, though. I would still love to talk to you about teaching!

_**Chapter Six: Lapse**_

It would have been easy to move, to shift in his seat, restore the sensation in his legs, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Part of him liked the numbness, craved the emptiness, and prayed that it would overtake all of him.

The nurse had been hesitant, but let him fill out the medical history form and accepted the fake insurance cards he handed her.

He had nearly lost it filling out the forms, trying to figure out how many of the hospitalizations Dean should admit to for his younger brother.

Instead he told the nurse that this was all he could remember, and turned the form in with half-truths and omissions.

He tried to call his father and was almost relieved when he just got voicemail. This wasn't a message he knew how to leave, so he didn't.

An hour passed. Then two. He couldn't stop himself from thinking about Sam laid out on an operating table, cut open, anesthetized. He could almost visual the doctors in their gowns and masks, exchanging equipment, peering at his brother's insides.

His stomach turned and the image fled. _How did we end up here?_

He was beginning to wonder if Sam would ever be out of surgery when someone finally came up to him.

Dean didn't really like doctors. Rather, it wasn't so much that he disliked doctors, but he disliked everything associated with doctors. Doctors represented his loss of control, a problem he couldn't fix, a threat greater than he wanted to ever face.

This doctor was older than Dean would have liked--he always felt that surgeons should never look over 50 because then he worried about the steadiness of their hands. But this one, who introduced himself as Dr. Hepker, had a benign face and a detached simplicity Dean appreciated.

"Sam definitely had a ruptured appendix. We removed what was left of the appendix and suctioned out as much of the infected matter as we could," he explained, sure to make continual eye contact with Dean. "The surgery was without complication, although we are very concerned about Sam's condition. Have you been able to contact your father yet?"

Dean shook his head. "He's on a business trip."

"You need to call him, son." The doctor spoke with subdued urgency.

"I did," Dean lied. "He's coming home as soon as he can."

Dr. Hepker looked skeptical of the young man in front of him. "Sam is very sick."

Dean was grasping at straws, desperate for some reassurance from the doctor. "But I thought people had this kind of thing all the time. I thought they were no big deal, easy recovery. Get it out, you're done, no problem."

"It usually is, if caught in time. The initial symptoms can be easily confused with the stomach flu among a host of other ailments. I mean, the nausea, vomiting, slight fever--if I were to list all the possible diseases those were symptoms of, we'd be here all afternoon. Usually the pain intensifies in the lower right side."

Dean remembered that, and wished Sammy had pointed that detail out. If he had just been more specific, then maybe…

"It gets quite painful-building until finally the appendix bursts. Though this initially relieves the pain, it's very dangerous. At that point, infected pus is let out into the abdominal cavity. It's only a matter of time before a dangerous infection of the abdomen--peritonitis--sets in."

Dean stared at a speck on the floor. Sam had admitted to pain and Dean hadn't even acknowledged it. _Suck it up, Sammy_. No matter what Sam may have said, Dean should have seen the truth, not tried to guilt him into submission.

The doctor took a deep breath. "I'm afraid that's what has happened to Sam. Unfortunately, Sam went quite some time without treatment. The pain probably returned as his abdomen was attacked by the infection. Given what you've told us of his illness and the severity of his fever, we think the infection is quite advanced."

And then he had let it linger on, fester. He had gone out partying while his brother was getting sicker--dying.

Dean suddenly felt weak, his knees buckling. He felt himself be snatched upright, then maneuvered to a chair. The room was spinning, the monochromatic hospital walls blurring.

"Easy now, son," the doctor was saying. "Deep breaths."

Someone shoved his head between his knees and he remembered to breathe. Within a few more moments, he was sitting up, sprawled against the chair, panting.

"You feeling better now?"

Dean kept breathing and let his silence stand.

"We've already got him a full spread of antibiotics. We're monitoring him very closely, so at the first sign of any additional complications, we'll be able to act immediately."

"What kind of complications?"

Dr. Hepker looked hesitant. "His fever is still dangerously high. And if the infection doesn't improve there's a high risk of septic shock, which could then lead to organ failure."

Dean felt bewildered, too shocked to speak.

He must have looked it to. The doctor patted him gently on the shoulder. "We're taking care of him, son," he said. "You need to call your father again. Get him here. Then a nurse can show you to Sam's room."

**0000000000000**

Dean finally left a message on his father's voicemail, and let the nurse show him to Sam's room. She's left him with a soft smile and vague reassurances. Inside the room, Dean's heart quickened in his chest. As much as he wanted to see his brother alive, he did not want to face the guilt of seeing him in a hospital bed. _Again_.

Sam looked thinner than usual, the days of not eating catching up with him. His face was pasty, accented by the limp strands of hair that strayed across his forehead.

Dean inched forward soundlessly, not wanting to wake his brother.

His efforts at stealth were thwarted. Sam turned his head, looking tiredly up at his brother.

Sam smiled weakly. "Hey." His voice was quiet, rough.

Dean cocked his head with a coy grin. "Hey back. How you feeling?"

"…told you I had a stomachache," Sam replied, letting his eyes drift close for a long moment.

The words weren't malicious, but struck painfully at Dean. "Yeah, guess you did."

"…s'okay," Sam said, glancing back at him. "..never listened to me before…why start now?"

Sam wasn't trying to mean. Dean recognized his joking as a Winchester self-defense mechanism. _Never let them see you hurting_.

_Aw, hell, Sammy_. "First time for everything."

Dean avoided all the things that he wanted to say, that he needed to say. "Look, Dad should be here soon, so just rest easy."

Sam laughed breathlessly. "He's going to flip out about this," Sam said closing his eyes again. He approximated his father's voice: "How can I trust you to watch my back when you can't even figure out how to protect yourself? No son of mine would let an appendix keep him down."

"Come on, Sammy," Dean said. "This isn't your fault."

Sam opened his eyes, wanting to believe his brother. For as much as he trusted Dean, he knew that his brother never understood the lack of faith his father placed in him. There was no way Dean could because for Dean, that faith was given without question, without reserve. "Yeah."

"Seriously, Sammy. How are you going to keep your appendix from rupturing?"

"He'd find a way," Sam quipped.

"Don't worry about Dad," Dean assured him. "This burden doesn't fall on you. It's me he's going to chew out."

"You? What for?"

"For not catching this sooner."

"And what medical degree do you have?"

"I never should have left you home alone that night, Sammy."

"What are you going to do, Dean? Watch me every second of every day? You can't do that, it's not realistic." Sam seemed winded. "Besides, I'm not a baby. You're going to have to see that someday."

"Yeah. Whatever." Dean could not bring his voice above a whisper. He shifted the conversation away from himself and back on Sam. "You need to get some rest now. Surgery is nothing to scoff at there, little brother."

Sam nodded with a ghost of a smile on his face. "I'm not feeling much…must still be the anesthesia."

"Probably," Dean agreed. "Get back to sleep while it's still working."

The suggestion was all Sam needed, and he let his eyes close again. "You sticking around?"

"Course I am, Sammy," Dean said flippantly. "There are some hot nurses. Saw this redhead down the hall--Catherine--I'm hoping she checks on you, so I've got to stay."

Dean's elaborate story was lost on Sam, who had surrendered back into the folds of unconsciousness.

Without Sam to put a front for, Dean felt himself collapse. His shoulders fell and he let his head rest in his hand. To see Sam fall victim to something so…natural. It unsettled him. He could fight a ghost, he could exorcise a demon. But he felt helpless as he watched Sam suffer from an ailment he couldn't combat.

Sam slept long, though he fluttered lightly below awareness on and off, leaving Dean perpetually perched on the edge of his seat, awaiting a change in Sam's condition. Nurses came and went (including the perky Catherine) and Dr. Hepker kept offering the same clichés, prompting Dean each time to get his father here.

That insistence made Dean nervous. Parents were never so big a deal unless they suspected additional forms had to be signed and important decisions needed to be made. He didn't know what he'd do if Sam took a turn for the worse.

The fever made Sam restless. His kid brother shifted weakly under the blankets, small whimpers escaping from his mouth occasionally. Dean hated to watch it, but couldn't bring himself to look away. He had seen Sam through a variety of childhood illnesses but the sight of Sam in a restless sleep never got easier. Sam looked younger in the hospital bed, with his bangs swept aside, exposing his forehead. Dean resisted the urge to straighten his hair. Sam never let it lay like that--not anymore. In fact, Sam held out on getting a haircut as long as possible, and it seemed to Dean like his kid brother was trying to hide behind his hair, obscure himself so he wouldn't have to face the world.

Dean hated this. He had more experience with it than he wanted to admit. But it had always been because of evil before. It had always been on the hunt, something paranormal they couldn't control. This was an _appendix_.

The tactics that kept them safe in the hunting world, were the same tactics that alienated them from society, that cut them off from everything around them. They were the same tactics that made them vulnerable to the daily burdens.

They spoke to each other without words. They existed in a vacuum. They believed that all the good things they had to say were understood and all the problems would never be real if they didn't give them words to make them tangible.

It was about trust. They trusted each other to watch their backs, to know their hidden feelings, to never breach the wall of denial they built around themselves. They were supposed to know when things were wrong and they were supposed to know when it was wrong enough to deal with.

Dean had trusted Sam to let him know it was serious. Sam had trusted Dean to figure it out. And in the lapse between these two trusts, everything had fallen apart. Life had wormed its was between them and played their strengths against them, leaving them all shell-shocked in the aftermath.


	7. Casted and Rehearsed

**A/N:** I'm looking at about two chapters after this, I believe, and then this story will be wrapped up. This chapter tackles the issues that arise when John comes back into the picture. This chapter seems a little on the boring side to me, but there's some necessary emotional buildup, I think. I don't know. I'm going to stop trying to explain it and just let you read. Thanks yet again to the wonderful readers and reviewers who make this SO much fun. And this goes out with gratitude to Cati (I hope you haven't busted anything while skiing!).

_**Chapter Seven: Casted and Rehearsed**_

Dean heard his father before anything else. A demanding, almost angry voice was spewing orders down the hall. "My son--where's my son?"

Stifling a moan of dread, he caught his father just as he was raising his arms in frustration, ready to chew out the poor nurse trying to speak calmly from behind the desk.

"Dad," he said, pulling at his arm.

When his father finally recognized him, he forgot the girl, and let Dean lead him down the hallway.

"What happened?"

"His appendix ruptured--they got it out but he's got an infection."

"So what's that mean?"

"They're giving him antibiotics, monitoring him."

John seemed to be waiting. After a beat, he said, "That's it? That's all that can be done?"

Dean shrugged noncommittally, embarrassed. He could feel the anger rolling off his father.

"So how is he?"

Dean had been dreading this question most of all. This was the bottom line. "Not good."

John smacked the wall. "Dean, why didn't you tell me it was serious?"

Dean could hardly believe his ears. He snorted incredulously. "Are you joking?"

John did not look amused. "Why didn't you get him in here sooner? Why didn't you call me?"

"How?" Dean asked. "How was I supposed to call you?"

"It was an emergency, Dean."

"And I took him to the hospital."

"After almost five days," John said venomously.

Dean blanched, clenching his teeth, shocked rage coursing through him. "You told me it was nothing--you said he was faking, being a baby--" Dean couldn't finish his thought, sputtering over the incongruity of his father's sudden concern.

"I trusted you, Dean, to figure out Sam. I left him with you. He's your responsibility."

Dean's yell rippled throughout the waiting room. "He's your son!"

The curious glances made John shift uneasily, pulling Dean closer to him. "Watch yourself," he hissed.

Dean shook himself away. "Get away from me," he seethed back. "Why don't you just go home? Don't you have another hunt to get to?"

There was a brief flicker of hurt over his father's face and Dean regretted his words. He regretted them even more when the pain was replaced by a brutal anger. "At least then I'd be doing my job, which is more than I can say for you this weekend."

Dean visibly flinched from the impact of his father's words. Tears bit viciously at the back of his eyes and he found himself unable to speak. He backed away farther, desperately wanting to speak denial. Ashamed, he turned away, mutely leaving the waiting room.

He barely got around the corner when he realized he didn't know where he was going. He looked around, hoping to find direction, but the walls all looked the same and the people who hurried passed him blurred together into a chaotic mass of humanity.

When he pushed open the door to a stairwell, he sensed the stillness and solace of it, and he let himself collapse into the corner, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

He wasn't angry at his father. His father had always been preoccupied--ever since their mother died, he hadn't been all there. Dean knew this, Dean understood this, and Dean had taken it upon himself to be the father when John couldn't.

He couldn't blame the misjudgment of Sam's condition on John because John wasn't attuned to that kind of detail. John had given that responsibility to him when he was four-years-old, and he had carried it ever since, sometimes willingly, sometimes out of habit, sometimes because his father told him to. No matter his reasons, it was still his responsibility. He realized early on, that to shirk that responsibility would be to forfeit the heart, soul, and life of his baby brother. No matter how much he resented Sam from time to time, he knew he did not exist without his brother.

He let himself slide to the floor, feeling defeated. As much as he wanted to blame his father, he couldn't. He knew the truth: the blame fell solely on himself. He was Sam's protector, and no one else.

The night their mother died, each male Winchester was assigned a role. John was to be the avenger and the leader. He would provide the focus, the drive. He would dictate order and purpose. His word was law, unquestionable and concrete.

Sam was to be the innocent, the semblance of normalcy. He was their link to the real world, their compassion, their humanity. He represented what was worth protecting; he provided the necessary shades of gray to blur their father's black and white outlook.

Dean was the bond between the two. He was his father's second in command, which made him Sam's authority. Even when Sam resisted his father, he could still trust in Dean.

Dean had believed in this, trusting that adherence to that structure would keep them safe, make them whole. In some ways, it was a beautiful image, a picture of balance, of oneness.

But the oneness had ruptured, and he was beginning to see how infected they all had become.

Dean let his head fall to his knees.

The roles they played were nothing more than parts, hollow representations of life. They lied to each other a little bit more every day. They all retreated into themselves, into their own worlds, slowly shutting each other out, putting up facades to share with one another. John had locked himself away from his boys years ago, mostly when Mary died, but more and more as they grew older and lost that spark of innocence. Dean followed where his father led, and denied himself in order to make everyone around him happy. Sam struggled and rebelled. It was no longer clear who he really was and who he simply didn't want to be.

The lies were like self-inflicted wounds, slowly eating away at who they were, destroying the essence that was their family. But it was denial that allowed it to continue unhindered. It was clear they were slowly self-destructing, but all of them were too wrapped up in maintaining the illusion of control to really stop it from happening.

Somewhere deep inside, they all knew this. They all knew how fine a line they walked. If one of them were to fall, the other two would come tumbling after.

Dean was holding onto Sam with all his might, but it was his brother's choice, his brother's decision now.

With a steadying breath, he stood, to return to his brother, trying not to think about how it was only a matter of time before it fell apart, before his perfect family was beyond salvaging.

But not today. _Please, Sammy, not today_.

**0000000000000**

John had not taken Dean's word for Sam's condition, but had immediately sought out his doctor. By the time Dean returned to Sam's room, he found his father stationed securely by Sam's side.

The doctor had offered nothing new about Sam's condition. His kid brother still fought the infection that seemed to be gripping him like a vice, showing no signs of letting up. As time slipped by, Dean noted with concern that Sam's lapses of coherency seemed to grow further and further apart, leaving the tension between Dean and his father to grow deeper and more volatile.

John had a strange pattern in hospitals. Sometimes, he was voraciously vigilant, never leaving the room, watching every monitor, noticing every blip that seemed abnormal, comforting every slight moan that might escape the person on the bed.

But between his bouts of sincere parenting, he became dark and elusive, disappearing for hours at a time. Dean didn't know what it was that made him leave, and Dean never knew where he went, but knew to let him go, let him be, until he was able to come back and play the concerned father again.

After a few short hours by Sam's bedside, John had left, mumbling something incoherent about bathrooms. Dean watched him go without a word, continuing his post by Sam's side.

Only a few minutes had passed, when he noticed more movement coming from his brother. Dean straightened himself, leaning in to see what would happen.

Sam's eyes rolled under his lids as he tossed weakly in the bed. He blinked once, almost imperceptibly, then again, this time staying open.

Dean let himself grin. Sam had not shown any awareness for hours, and it was good to see some movement, however meager it may have been. "Hey, kiddo, what are you doing awake?"

Sam's eyelids drifted heavily. "Dean?"

"Yeah," he said, softly touching his brother's brow. The skin was still hot to the touch, Sam's forehead creased in familiar lines of pain. "You need to be getting your rest."

Sam sucked in a shallow breath with effort. "I'm tired, Dean."

"Course you are, Sammy," Dean said. "You've been through a lot."

"What's wrong with me?"

The question unsettled Dean and he frowned as he let his hand absorb the heat from Sam's fever. His brother's eyelids were at half-mast, revealing cloudy hazel irises. "Don't you remember?"

Sam appeared deep in thought for a moment. "Appendix?"

"Yep, only you can't do things the easy way. Got to make it difficult. You got an infection. Pretty bad one, which is probably why you feel out of it."

Sam nodded distantly, letting his eyes fall shut for a long beat before he looked at his brother again. "…it's cold, Dean."

Dean pulled at the blankets, hiking them up higher on Sam's body. "Yeah, I know. Sorry about that, buddy. I'll see if I can find another blanket."

Sam's focused seemed limited. He scrunched his nose up. "How long?"

"In the hospital?" Dean guessed, moving his hand down to take Sam's. "Since Monday. It's Wednesday."

Shutting his eyes again, Sam seemed to drift back into his feverish sleep. Dean was about to sit back in his chair when Sam's murmuring stopped him. "…not your fault…"

"Sammy?"

Sam blinked wearily, his eyes clearing with sudden coherency. "Not your fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"This," he said. "You can't fix everything. Sometimes you've just got to let go."

Dean's heart pounded and he refused to blink as he stared in his brother's eyes. Sam held his gaze a moment longer before his eyes seemed to glaze again.

"…let go…." Sam's voice was little more than a breath, vanishing into the sterile hospital air before Sam slipped back into sleep.

Still with his hand holding his brother's, Dean struggled to breathe. How could Sam know? How could Sam understand the guilt that had chased him up and down the halls of the hospital while he waited for Sam's condition to improve?

Letting go was not a Winchester trait. Letting go represented the antithesis of their family lifestyle. There was too much baggage, too much already in place, his world was too carefully constructed for him to let go.

When his father finally returned, Dean was still perched on the chair, his hand holding Sam's, showing no signs of loosening its grip.


	8. Letting Go

**A/N: **I can't believe I'm to the second to last chapter already! Thanks again for the reviews--some of you have really taken some time to respond and I can't thank you enough. The thoughtfulness of some of the reviews has really amazed me. Credit as always goes to Cati (who STILL isn't home yet...I've had to wander around all weekend and think about Sam's arms all by myself...I thought about talking to my husband about it but I have a feeling he wouldn't understand...).

_**Chapter Eight: Letting Go**_

The hospital room seemed to be in a state of perpetual twilight, dimly lit, all natural light and darkness squelched by the blinds. It made Dean feel tired, chronically tired, but he wouldn't let himself sleep.

Sam had not awoken again, and it worried Dean. His brother's pallor remained the same sickly shade of gray, and he seemed to be melting into the bed. His breaths had become labored and rasping.

John came and went, sometimes sitting by Dean, his presence bolstering his resolve to stay strong. It was when John left, when he was wandering, that Dean felt weak, like falling apart.

The nurses came and went and Dean had lost interest to the point that he could not even bring himself to smile at Catherine when she stopped by. When Dr. Hepker returned yet again, he looked unusually serious, a frown tugging his lips downward.

"He's in septic shock," the doctor said, moving the stethoscope one last time, listening to Sam's lungs. "We can try another antibiotic, but if Sam's body doesn't respond, there's not much more we can do. At this rate, we're going to have to intubate him to help support his breathing."

His father was here, and Dean was grateful to not have to be the adult this time.

John didn't care about what-ifs or worst case scenarios. He wanted the odds. "What's the prognosis?"

The doctor hesitated, a debate flickering through his eyes. "The mortality rate for septic shock is high--around 50. Sam is young, but his body's been through a lot. If his organs start to shut down, then we're looking at much more invasive procedures to keep him alive. Only time will tell."

The answer was not what John wanted.

"I'm sorry I can't give you better or even more specific news," Dr. Hepker said. "We're doing everything we can for him. I'll check on him frequently. Please, page me if you have any questions."

John murmured a thanks as the doctor left them. The three Winchesters plunged into a tense silence. Sam was on the bed, asleep or unconsciousness or a combination of both. John remained unmoving in his post by his son's side, his eyes staring straight through the paleness of his younger son's complexion. Dean stood stiffly in the corner, watching his father and his brother, unable to think.

Dean's vision dimmed with anger. His jaw twitched as he tried to keep himself from kicking something.

John was still standing by Sam's bedside, the doctor's diagnosis slowly settling into his mind. After a long moment, he looked up at his oldest child. "Dean--"

Dean shook his head vehemently, knowing instinctively what his father was going to say. He'd heard it too often in the past, and he just wasn't up for it this time. "Don't."

"Dean--"

"No," Dean insisted. "Don't stand there and try to tell me it's okay."

John composed himself, keeping his voice even and soft. "Dean--"

His father's calm infuriated Dean. "No, you weren't there, you're never there, and you can't sit there and tell me everything will be alright. I can't hear another platitude come out of your mouth. I can't stand to listen to excuses, lies--I can't even take another session of guilt trip because I didn't catch this sooner. I don't care. We did this to him, and that's not okay."

Dean's words struck a chord within his father, and he visibly darkened. "Son, you better watch yourself. We do what we can. We do what we have to do. You missed this one, and maybe I did too. We have our blame in it, but we'll get through this."

Dean released a strangled laugh. "How many times have we been here, Dad? How many?" His voice was taunting, jaded.

"Who are you looking to blame? And what good is it going to do?"

Dean shook his head with a half-smirk. "Sometimes we're so busy looking for something to kill, something to fight, that we forget to look at the stuff that really matters."

"What's more important than justice for your mother's killer? You know why we do what we do."

"How about Sam's life? How about Sam's needs and wants and desires? He's not _like_ us, Dad, and I'm not sure he'll ever be. Hell, he shouldn't _have_ to be. What's the point of fighting if we lose track of each other?"

"I'm doing this for you boys," John growled.

Dean swallowed back his protests, realizing finally just how useless they were. He understood his father's role, and he understood his own. While they both wanted to save Sam, he knew that, in many ways, they were always trying to save him from different things.

Resignation overwhelmed him and he collapsed heavily into a chair. "If we lose Sam…." He couldn't finish, the tears burned his eyes. He looked down, trying to hide it.

John moved from Sam side, moving toward his eldest son. "We're not going to lose Sammy," John said definitively.

"Come on, Dad--"

"No, Dean, listen to me," he said. "We won't lose Sammy."

Dean looked up. His cheeks glistened with tears. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're here, Dean. And Sammy could never leave you."

There was a quiet certainty in his father's voice. Dean wanted to believe him, wanted to take solace in his words of comfort, but the tendrils of doubt had already taken root in the back of his mind.

**0000000000000**

Sam's breathing was harsh, grating as he worked to take each one in and push it back out again.

But it was still Sam breathing--all Sam. The doctor looked concerned, checking Sam often, but his reports were always the same, always with that warning that in a few hours things could get much, much worse.

Dean dared to hope. As much as Sam resisted hunting, he was still a Winchester through and through. Sam seemed too defiant to abide by the ill predictions of a medical doctor, too rebellious to let some superfluous organ take him down.

But every time Dean ventured to hope, he would see the colorless hue of Sam's skin, see the monitors the beeped noncommittally, see the oxygen mask the covered Sam's face. It shook him, the fragile appearance of his brother, the delicate grip by which seemed to barely be clinging to life.

He studied his father, who was curled up awkwardly in the chair, his chest rising rhythmically in sleep. The realization hit him: his father had no idea if Sam would live or die. Not really. No promise he could make could ensure Sam's survival or anything else. It was just another lie, just another aspect of the part he played, the mask he wore.

In a rush, Dean felt slighted, disillusioned. But as his eyes wandered from his father to his brother, he realized that they had nothing else to fall back on. They had spent 16 years building these roles, believing in these lies, denying these truths.

If it cost Sammy his life…Dean didn't know what he'd do. He didn't know if he could face his responsibility in what had happened to Sam, how his role had made his brother downplay his symptoms, how his lies had kept Sam at home, how his denial had refused to see it until it was too late.

Part of Dean wanted to promise, vow right now to change, to be honest and truthful about everything, admit to the hurt, admit to his fears, admit to everything that he so carefully repressed. And he would do it, he knew, if he thought that would save Sam somehow.

But honesty wouldn't save Sam now. The lies and denial went too deep--to the core of who they were; it couldn't be fixed with a last minute change of heart.

For the moment, Sam's condition was out his hands. He had let it get this far, he had trusted in all the wrong things too long, and he had no where else to turn.

He looked back at his father, and believed his lie, denying desperately the truth that screamed in his mind. _Sometimes you've just got to let go._


	9. Unbroken

**A/N: **I can't believe it's over! This is it! My final chapter! I just want to thank everyone again--everyone who's read this, everyone who's reviewed once, twice, every chapter. I hope this ending is satisfying. And, as always, thanks and hugs to Cati. This is for you--all of it--and I hope it lived up to your expectations :)**_  
_**

_**Chapter Nine: Unbroken**_

The nurses had nearly kicked Dean and John out, allowing them to stay only after a hot shower and a change of clothes. Dean barely felt the hot water in the hospital shower as it scorched his skin, just let it rain down on him as he tried to make himself feel alive, stay cognizant. It wouldn't have mattered, but he had to be with it for when Sam woke up.

He had to believe Sam would wake up soon, that he would kick this thing. He wanted to believe it, needed to believe it, no matter what Dr. Hepker said.

"Sam's condition is unchanged. It looks like he's still hanging in there." There was a hint of surprise in his voice. "We'll continue to monitor him."

It was a bleak outlook, but the doctor didn't have to intubate Sam that night. He didn't have to do it the next day either.

By the following evening, he was smiling as he checked Sam. "I think he's been through the worst of it," he said. "He's on his way to recovery."

John's smile was sure and proud and relieved, but he kept it small, so as not to alert anyone to the mix of emotions that had carried him through the waiting period.

Dean was hesitant to believe in the progress. Sam's color improved and his breathing relaxed, but Dean doubted, doubted that the unity he so cherished could ever be restored to its pristine state.

Then Sam woke up.

Their father had been unusually compassionate with his youngest son. Despite all of Sam's fears to the contrary, John was merely relieved that his son was alive, too thankful for that small favor to spend any more time pointing fingers. He talked quietly to Sam, smoothing his hair back with gentle strokes, and smiled more freely than usual.

Dean watched their simple interaction and wondered why it took so much to show love to one another. He knew the peace was fleeting, that soon they would all go home and their father would order and Sam would rebel and he would forever attempt to bridge the two.

Dean felt his breath catch in his throat. Was this image of a perfect family unit enacted in front him real? Had it ever been real? Or was the perfect family he thought he needed, he thought he wanted--was it forever tainted, forever infected? Because he knew, with sudden clarity, that if it was real and pure, they wouldn't be here at all. Dean had wrestled that truth for the last few days, and he was still no closer to knowing how to deal with it. They all projected strength and unity, depended on it for survival. But what decay lay beneath the facade? What if the projection shattered for the lie that it was? What would remain?

Dean didn't know, and he didn't know what to say when his father left him alone with Sam while he got some some dinner.

Sam turned expectantly to his brother. The compassion from John had roused Sam's spirits, and for once Dean believed that his brother bought into the unity he bucked.

"Thanks," he said finally.

Dean was surprised. "For what?"

"Saving me."

"Saving you?"

"I should have known," Sam said. "Should have told you more about it."

"Sam, don't be ridiculous."

But Sam was sincere, honest in his gratitude. A glimmer of hope reflected in Sam's eyes. A hope that true unity could be restored, that they could go back to a happier time, a more peaceful time, that they weren't ruptured beyond repair.

Dean felt the apology catch in the back of his throat. It was an apology Sam deserved--one to rectify the neglect, to remedy the lapse in trust. For one moment, Dean thought he could give it, satisfy the need for absolution--not just for this, not just for him, but for all of them. There was just so much hope, so much need in Sam's eyes, and for once his brother didn't let it be hidden by the cynicism that clouded him.

But the moment passed, and Dean felt the weight of unspoken words on his tongue. As if an apology could make up for 16 years of lies, deceptions, and false fronts. "So you finally decided to wake up?" Dean made his voice light, and he kept himself purposefully leaned back in his seat.

The hope in Sam's features flickered. A half-smile of bravado took its place. "Figured you needed someone around to keep you busy," he said. Though his voice sounded harsh against his unused throat muscles, the tone of Winchester confidence was unmistakable. "Besides, got kind of boring, so I figured I'd better wake up."

Dean felt himself relaxing, falling back into the comfortable give-and-take he shared with his brother. "Right, Sammy," he said, tousling his brother's hair. "You know you could never stay away. You'd miss me too much."

Sam grinned, too tired to duck away from his brother's invasion of his space. Then the moment passed and silence fell, lilting uncertainly. Sam's smiled lessened, but he visibly forced it to remain.

Dean returned the favor with much more gusto. He looked at Sam and overlooked the disappointment, the regret, the need, and accepted his brother's act as the truth he knew it could never be.

The facade was back. The status-quo had returned. It was easier to lie. It was easier to deny. He would never tell Sam about the doubts, he would never tell Sam about the words he exchanged with his father. _At least not today_.

Because for today, the façade, perfect and unbroken, was enough.


End file.
